


Mutual Surrender

by freezerjerky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Indirect reference to spoilers for s2, M/M, Post Reichenbach, a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new (old) war-zone between Sherlock and John after Sherlock's return.</p>
<p>In which the words don't come until after everything unfolds, and there's a problem to be worked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutual Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before the last episode aired in the hopes of publishing it soon after to help the initial emotions with some smut.  
> It got away with me, of course, and this is what resulted.  
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

               Everything falls back into place. It resumes, in short, picking up right where it left off. There was no evolution on the outside; it was just another warzone behind them. Being apart for years, it was no different from the drugs, or the hot desert sun, or the streets of London. It felt longer, tamer for one of them; painful for both, but it was just another battle to lie behind them.

                John, greyer than he was before, with more lines in his face, but otherwise unchanged, seemed the same. He worked, came home, watched telly, made tea, went out on weekends, was more than willing to go to crime scenes, did the shopping, and went on as every man does. There was not much variance, to the outsider, in his habits with and without Sherlock. He seemed to get on well enough without, but it was only because he thought of the time without, even if it was the rest of his life, as just another battlefield. John was determined to win.

                Sherlock’s eccentricities never allowed for consistency in his life, even _before._ Some days he didn’t talk, others he played violin for hours, or shot walls, or experimented on human spleens, or ran across London solving a locked room triple homicide. Whatever happened _during_ only had the impact of returning him to relative anonymity. He had returned from his isolated battlefield to London, his preferred warzone where he had the home field advantage and his small supply of allies.

                There was a new warzone forming, one between the two men. Or rather, there was an old warzone, where the first shots had been fired years before finally getting to see actual battle.

                It begins in a commonplace alleyway, on a case, on a relatively average late afternoon. They have been led here on a chase, pursuing a man who killed his mother’s younger lover (and her prized poodle as well) because the lover was his own former flame. The idiot has a gun, which neither expect him to use, but he of course ends up pulling, and firing a single bullet less than two inches from John’s head.

                John is only disoriented for a moment or two, but it is long enough time for Sherlock to knock the suspect down to the ground and deliver one or two blows before successfully knocking him unconscious.

                “Sherlock,” John says calmly.

                The other man turns around, and they lock eyes.

                “What the hell are you doing?” John continues.

                “Catching a criminal, obviously. Call The Yard.”

                Neither turns away. John licks his lips in a familiar way, one that he has done thousands of times, and something clicks. The turning point begins, though not a word is spoken about it. There’s no need to verbally communicate what is going to occur, but there is a heat coiling within the cores of the two friends.

 

                They continue in silent combat when The Yard shows up. It is subtle, standing shoulder to this, but there’s a new electricity to this. When they’re free to go, rather than calling for a cab, they walk, their hands drifting towards each other until their fingers interlock and both end up with a near death grip on the other’s hand.

                John stops at a shop and Sherlock attempts to pull him forward, towards home. John holds his ground, giving a stern look and standing his ground. They mutually relinquish their hands, and Sherlock shoves his into his pockets, determined to not enter. With a shake of his head, John enters the store. He re-emerges a few minutes later, Sherlock looking almost as impatient as if he had been waiting for hours.

                “I’m not using those,” Sherlock comments.

                “Yes, you are.”

                “We don’t need to-”

                “I’m a doctor, I think I do know what we do and don’t need to do.”

                “I’ve never.”

                “Well I have.”

                “You’re clean.”

                “Can we not have this discussion in the street?” John says.

                Sherlock knows he has won this battle.

                “Shall we continue it in a cab?”

 

                The cab ride proves to be nearly completely silent. They don’t actively touch, but they sit plastered against each.  The first kiss occurs just outside of the cab, it is intended to be chaste, but neither man has it in them to keep it brief. No, the closed mouths soon fall open, and there is a struggle for something akin to dominance.  Suddenly, John is laughing, still muffled by Sherlock’s mouth and the other man can barely contain his own baritone laugh as he nibbles on John’s lower lip.

                “We’ve got to take this inside,” John says.

                “I could do this for the rest of the night.”

                “Then I’ll have to go up and take care of myself.”

                “Wouldn’t want that.”

                “We really should talk about this first. It’s sudden.”

                “It’s been years, John.”

                “You weren’t alive to me for quite a bit of that time.”

                “But you were quite alive to me, and I was often very bored and lonely.”

                “I guess you’re just going to have to prove to me how alive we both are.”

                “I’d far rather you proved to me that I’m actually here,” Sherlock replies before beating a hasty retreat to the flat.

                When John enters the flat, Sherlock is not in the living room waiting for him. John smiles to himself as he takes off his shoes and coat before making his way through the flat to the bedroom in the back. By the time he enters the room, Sherlock’s room, he is greeted with the sight of a just stripped bare Sherlock climbing into his bed. John joins him, sitting on the edge of the bed gingerly. He is still holding the bag in his hand, but it falls to the ground when a pale hand reaches for the growing bulge in his trousers.

                “One of those items may be necessary, please don’t lose the bag.”

                Sherlock states this before placing a kiss delicately behind John’s ear. He sinks unto the bed, propped up by two pillows. John’s immediate response is to pull off his jumper and slide off his trousers, pants, and socks in one clumsy but efficient movement. He sets to observing the new territory in front of him, taking Sherlock in in a way that would be described as clinical if not for the size of his pupils and now more than half hard prick.

                Scars dot his body, and John knows that they are new. He touches each of them, one on his left foot, another on his right thigh (this one, the result of a knife wound, he kisses reverently), a third on his right ribs, a smaller but similar scar on his left. There is a tiny scar, probably one that will fade soon, above his left nipple. John touches it gingerly, but it is enough to send a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The mood of the room shifts, and John smiles to himself as he climbs on top of the other man, returning his attention to Sherlock’s chest, but this time using his mouth, which elicits a series of small but deep moans. John is too preoccupied to really notice the hand moving to the scar on his shoulder, mapping it out with curious fingertips and taking in what they can in this moment.

                “Touch me,” Sherlock gasps.

                “I can do one better than that.”

                John moves down his body, settling himself between Sherlock’s legs. He leans down and takes the head of his cock in his mouth. He teases for a few moments, before moving on to lick the glans, and eventually to take as much of Sherlock’s prick in his mouth as he can. The man beneath him is writhing, thrusting upwards perhaps a little bit too hard and grabbing the back of his head with white knuckled hands.

                “Fuck me now, John. I want to come with you-”

                John momentarily strengthens his efforts, cutting off the last nagging hint of coherency in the other man. He releases Sherlock’s prick, and they both sit up, sharing a bruising kiss before Sherlock reaches down to root through the bag on the ground, pulling out a bottle of lube, which he tosses to John.

                “On your front,” John states as he opens the tube.

                Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he obeys, waiting almost too patiently for John’s liking. If it weren’t for his uneven breath, it would be almost disappointing. John gives his arse a squeeze before he penetrates him with his lube slicked finger.

                “Why didn’t we do this sooner?” Sherlock moans a few moments later as the finger makes contact with his prostate.

                “You were dead,” John replies, before he can even process what is said. There are lies, feelings, and the past to be dealt with. He remembers his anger when the words come out. His ministrations stop temporarily, until he hears the groan the loss of motion produces. One finger quickly becomes two, and soon enough three. There’s a roughness to his attentions, a way of saying what he can’t verbalise at that moment.

                “On your side.”

                His fingers slide out, breaking all points of contact for what feels like an eternity. Sherlock rolls onto his side, away from John, who hurriedly slicks up his cock. There is no hesitation as he lines himself up, and even less when he breaches Sherlock’s entrance, producing yet another of the guttural moans John has already learned to cherish. Sherlock tenses around him and John runs his hands down his arms and lays a kiss on his shoulder, which relaxes him. John pushes the rest of the way in until his whole length is inside.

                “Get oh- on with it,” Sherlock says, attempting to sound collected.

                There is a moment when John buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and then he starts moving, creating a rough and irregular rhythm. The room fills with the sound of breathy noises and the slap of skin against skin. John finds himself biting down a loud cry on the pale shoulder in front of him, which only elevates the desire to scream, as it causes a delicious cry out of the other man. He pulls most of the way out, pushing his way back in, and he wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock, moving along with the rhythm of their hips. It feels rough and raw, and suddenly Sherlock comes, crying out to a God that he has never believed in. Instead of relaxing, he grabs behind John, reaching his arse and attempting to pull him closer, as if that could be achieved. This is enough to make John come, and he does with a silent scream on his lips. When he collects himself, he pulls out, the full meaning of what he has done resting on him.

                “Are you okay?” he whispers.

                _He hasn’t had sex_ he thinks, _ever._

               Sherlock silently rolls over to face him. He is sweating still, chest heaving slightly. There is a wonderfully pink flush to his skin, clear up to his face and behind his ears.  His eyes are half lidded still, lips still swollen.

               “I feel absolutely debauched,” Sherlock replies.

               John leans over and places a light kiss on the corner of his mouth.

               “I need to shower. You’re moving into my room starting tonight,” Sherlock continues.

               Before John can reply, he is out of the bed and on his way to the en suite bathroom. John lies still for a few moments before climbing out of the bed to attempt to clean himself up. He goes to his room and returns wearing just pants and a worn t-shirt as well as holding a fresh pair of sheets, as Sherlock’s usually surprisingly clean sheets have gained a rather large new stain.

                He is sitting on the edge of the bed when Sherlock returns from the shower, still stark naked. For a few moments, Sherlock doesn’t even acknowledge him and crawls into the bed.

“John.”

There is no reply, save John moving up to join his flatmate, snuggling into the duvet. They do not touch but John stares at Sherlock intently.

“Why on earth do you want to talk now of all times?” Sherlock states.

“Because we just slept together.”

“I am trying to work on the sleeping together part right now. I believe it is customary for you to tell me how great I was or some other compliment, kiss me, and fall asleep.”

“You were fantastic.”

 

John wakes abruptly from a nightmare. His agitation is increased by the fact that he is not initially familiar with his surroundings. It is only after he hears the soft almost snore of the man lying beside him that he remembers where he is. His motion is enough to wake Sherlock, who seems to adjust to the situation immediately, leaning up and looking at John expectantly.

“I have nightmares,” John admits. “Which you probably already know. Afghanistan, sometimes, you dying, usually. Sometimes if I’m really lucky, it’s both.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“What?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“I just wake up from a bloody awful nightmare and you want to- is this some game to you?”

“Of course not. Being inside of me didn’t allay your worry about my status among the living. Perhaps the opposite will prove more effective.”

John has some questions he wants to ask just then, but they are cut off by a rather aggressive kiss. Now that Sherlock had been granted access to his mouth once, it seems that he expected full access whenever he wished. Sherlock pulls away and reaches for the lube which John had placed on his side table.

John’s prick stirs to attention at the prospect of a second go, and John hastily removes his clothing. Immediately, there’s a long fingered hand on him, pulling his half hardness to a sizeable erection. Mere moments later, he feels the weight of another body pressing down on him, pulling him into another heated kiss, which moves away from his mouth to the underside of his jaw and down his neck, teeth and tongue busily working on exposed flesh. John arches his back in pleasure as he feels Sherlock’s prick make contact with his own. He wants to come some day from just that. He wants. He wants this to last forever. It won’t.

John cannot muse on this now, not as a lube slicked digit works its way into him. Not as the tentative slide becomes more sure. Especially not when a second finger joins the first and they find his prostate gland, and after almost too much teasing because of this, a third finger is inserted and it continues until he can’t bear it anymore. Sherlock removes his fingers and rolls over onto his back, leaving John more open and exposed than he’s felt in a long time.

“I believe that since I have never topped and you are an infrequent bottom, it might be a good idea for you to ride me.”

John shows his agreement by reaching across Sherlock for the lube and quietly preparing him. He moves to straddle him, positioned on his knees over the other man.

“Don’t move until I tell you to,” John warns.

He bites his bottom lip as he begins to sink down on Sherlock’s prick. He allows it to penetrate him slowly, wincing briefly at the discomfort of the stretch, but soon enough feeling the pleasure of being filled. When he is fully seated, he makes the quiet command to move, which proves more for his benefit than Sherlock’s. He rocks with the new rhythm, lightly placing his hands, palms flattened, on Sherlock’s chest. Once Sherlock adjusts to the new sensations, he grabs hold of John’s hips, his grip firm but tender.

“John.”

Sherlock stills beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” John replies.

“I’m hurting you, you’re crying.”

“No, you’re not. This is good, this is very good.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, tracing patterns in John’s left thigh with his fingers. “Emotions.”

They resume. John forgets the pain in his leg, the psychosomatic problem that had returned for three long years, but as much as he thinks the pressure of hands on his thighs is helping, what he really wants is to be _touched._ He’s afraid to speak, in case his voice breaks and the tears ruin everything. Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses on the wonderful pleasure of being filled and the steady rhythm, every few upward thrusts hitting him just there. He doesn’t call out or moan, but rather breathes in tandem with the motion. Suddenly, there they are, long fingers wrapping around his cock, moving experimentally at first, but then falling into the correct rhythm.

The grip is loosened however, and John opens his eyes to witness the sight of Sherlock sucking pre come off of his fingers. John groans.

“This is what you get for not keeping your eyes on me the whole time.” Sherlock smirks and returns his hand to its previous occupation.

It only takes a few more strokes for John to come, with a silent scream and his release spilling onto his partner’s stomach. When his orgasm recedes, he’s left over sensitive, suppressed tears on his cheeks. Sherlock looks unsure as to what to do.

“I need you to come for me, love,” John whispers.

John ghosts his fingers along Sherlock’s ribs, and they move for a few moments more until Sherlock’s own release hits. He gives an indecipherable cry, it may be God’s name again or it may be John’s. They seem the same to him at that moment.

 When it’s over, John carefully climbs off of Sherlock, lying beside him. He looks contented and sleepy. Sherlock smiles to himself as he grabs hold of John’s discarded t-shirt, using it to clean himself. He then extricates John’s pants from the bottom of the bed and uses them to properly clean John off, serving the dual purpose of making them comfortable to sleep and ridding John of his offensive clothes.

“D’you think it worked?” John says.

“We’ll have to experiment and see what produces the best sleep for you.”

John pulls the covers over them and Sherlock takes the opportunity of that motion to make it impossible for John to lay back down without touching him. They compromise by having John tuck his head under Sherlock’s chin.

“You were brilliant, John.”

John replies by kissing his chest for a few moments, before he’s so tired he can’t even remember how to kiss.

 

He wakes the next morning, sore but well-rested, to an empty bed. The spot next to him is still warm and the whole bed smells faintly of sex and largely of Sherlock. He is tempted to lie in bed for the rest of the day. Instead he dutifully climbs out of the bed, pulling on the pair of his boxers that Sherlock must have laid on the foot of the bed. Of course the git wouldn’t get out any trousers or shirts. Instead, John takes one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns out of his wardrobe and wraps it around himself as he makes his way into the kitchen.

“We’re talking,” he states, crossing through the room into the living room, “as soon as I’m more dressed.”

Sherlock barely acknowledges John as he stands by the table, working with some sort of mould spore. When John does return to the kitchen, the first acknowledgement is a scowl.

“Why did you put clothes on?” Sherlock asks, glancing in his direction.

John puts the kettle on, hoping that the only thing in it is water.

“Most people get dressed in the morning. Even you do,” John comments.

“I was hoping-”

“Stop right there. I am forty one years old, I ache all over, give me a few more hours and we’ll talk about that. Well, depending on what we work out when we talk as soon as the tea’s ready.”

“So we are talking about it then? Dull.”

“Why wouldn’t we talk about it?”

“We seemed to get to the point fine enough without words, and I have other plans for today that involve at least one of us being quite incapable of speaking at all.”

“You can’t just infer that last night is going to be a long-term thing.”

“I never infer,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Okay, you can’t deduce that last night is going to be a long-term thing.”

“Actually I can, that’s the point of being a genius. Furthermore, you agreed to move into my room. I don’t see why this is a problem.”

“I didn’t agree. I spent the night there.”

“It’s going to be counterproductive to our relationship if you continue sleeping in another room altogether.”

“Right, now we’re getting somewhere. The big R word. I’m drinking my tea in the living room. If you care to discuss our _relationship_ join me there.”

John fixes his tea and settles into his chair. Sherlock doesn’t bother to join him until after the cup is completely gone. When he does enter the room, he stands behind John’s chair until John looks up at him, then he kneels down so their faces are level.

“I would like to do an experiment with you, John and you can’t resist,” he growls. “I wish to perfect my skills performing fellatio.”

At this, John buries his face in his hands. This does not deter Sherlock, who walks to the front of the chair, then kneels, positioning himself between John’s legs. He reaches out, gently stroking John’s thighs.

“You left bruises last night,” John comments, placing his arms on the armrests.

“I know. Don’t worry, it’s quite mutual.”

The hands make their way completely up John’s inner thighs, and he reaches down to grasp them in order to keep them from travelling further. The look he sends Sherlock is one of a soldier, the one Sherlock actively seeks to wipe off his face.

“Let me talk.”

Sherlock sighs, his arms retreating. He lays his head on John’s right knee, sending out a proverbial white flag. Once the soldier came out to fight, the battle was over for him.

“Please don’t be too pedestrian or bore me before you get your point across. We won’t be having this talk again.”

John reaches down, running his left hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“Uhm, good,” John begins. “I think it’s clear from last night the direction we’re taking with this, yeah? Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to work out what I need to say. I’m not a genius, but, this is a long time coming for both of us. I want this. I want you.”

The reply John receives is a nod from Sherlock, who is busying himself by tracing the arch of John’s left foot through his sock.

“I’m not ticklish,” John continues. “The problem is that, well it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looks up at him with a raised brow.

“Right, of course, don’t even mention it if it’s that obvious. You were gone. That’s a long time for both of us to be carrying around these emoti- urges. They could have gone away, but they didn’t. They grew into this great big mess. When you came back I-”

“John.”

“Just hear me out, yeah? God, I was so fucking happy. It was enough and it always was enough. Something snapped yesterday and it seemed right to act on it. No matter what happens I can’t say I’ll reg-”

“John.”

“-ret that. But I’ll regret if we get further. I was safe before, and it has been and will be enough. I’m just worried that if this thing becomes a _thing_ that if you lea-”

“John.”

“If you leave me after we get beyond this, I won’t be able to handle it. You know what it did to me. So, I guess what I’m saying is that I need you to promise you aren’t going to go away again before we go on.”

“You lied when you said it can be enough to go back to before again. Deliberately, because you’re quite selfless, but it was a lie nonetheless.”

“Sherlock.”

“Is this an example of your sweet nothings that lovers whisper to each other?” he asks. “I can’t promise to not leave you, John. You’re not a complete idiot.”

“I don’t need it to be true- Christ, I just need you to say it.”

Sherlock looks up at him with a scowl. It’s not quite a confused face, the man probably doesn’t have one, simply the face of someone who doesn’t always care to understand how humanity as a whole works.

“We can’t go back, and I can’t promise not to leave again. We’re both going to leave eventually, one way or another. I believe the most fortunate outcome we can hope for is death at an advanced age. Given the high risk lifestyle we lead however-”

“Stop being a total arse for two seconds.”

John manoeuvres himself out of the chair, leaving Sherlock to slide down to the front of it completely. He retreats to his room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. When Sherlock enters, he is laying on his side on his bed.

“Can I join you?” Sherlock asks, already crawling onto the bed behind John. “I apologized for what I did already. I don’t repeat myself.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I apologize for not being able to promise you anything, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks.”

John buries his head in his pillow. Sherlock attempts to place a reassuring hand on his hip, which he naturally responds to, but forces himself to jolt away from. Negotiations were getting nowhere. Instead of quitting, however, Sherlock snakes his arm around the other man, pulling them flush against each other.

“Could you let me go? I said a few more hours. You can be stroppy for days, let me have my moment,” John says, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I’ve seen you in a few strops. This isn’t one of them. Do you want me to lie to you?”

                John turns around, managing as best as he can under the grip Sherlock has on him.

                “I don’t lie. I may have to go away again, I may die, I may want to go away at some indefinite point, you may want me to go away. But for what it means, even in your terribly romantic imaginings, I won’t leave you.”

                John gives him a brief smile, his own proffered white flag. Both combatants surrendered, neither the victor; a draw. They kiss; it’s chaste and brief, but promising more.

                “How about you help me give this room a fond farewell?” John asks, this time grinning.

                “You said a few more hours.”

                Sherlock makes a fake attempt at rising out of the bed, only to be pulled back in by John’s strong and able hands.

                “You complete berk. You will be the death of me.”

 


End file.
